The Dying Doctor
by Support Checkered
Summary: After a few seemingly unrelated deaths catch Molly's attention at the morgue, she asks Sherlock to investigate what she is sure must be murder. And it seems John might be the next victim. Set after season 3. Pre-Sherlolly.
1. Intro

Molly blew on her coffee through the slit in the lid as she waited for the lift to stop at her floor in St. Bartholomew's Hospital. The familiar chime alerted here she was there, and she began to get off when almost running headlong into someone.

"My apologies," he was out of breath. "I didn't see you there. Oh, hello Molly."

"Hello Dr. Culver." Molly greeted, shocked at his sudden appearance. She thought he went home hours ago.

"Busy today?" He asked but didn't seem to care for her answer as he pressed the elevator button vigorously.

"Yes, seems to be a few rather bad cases of pneumonia, recently."

"Pneumonia?" He looked at her, suddenly interested.

"Yes, just got my fifth-" but the elevator door shut just then, leaving her alone. "-in two days..." She said to no one in particular.

Molly sighed to herself as she walked down the hall to the morgue. Dr. Culver seemed out of sorts just now, had he been running? She was just about to shake it off when she opened the door to her morgue, and froze.


	2. Part One

**First, let me apologize to those who followed this story. You have amazing patience and I really appreciate that. I've been very busy lately, and the more I worked on the story the more I hated it, I had to re-write a lot, including this chapter so please be sure to re-read this before going to the next one because a lot has changed. Let me also say that the next chapters won't take nearly as long because I've got most of it written, I just have to hash out some of the details and the dialogue. Thank you for keeping with me!**

* * *

Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door of Sherlock's flat at 221B Baker Street. Molly stood beside her, muscles tense, glancing often down at her feet as if to check if they were still there.

"Sherlock? Is the doorbell in the freezer again?" The land lady called through the door, knocking twice.

The two women could hear the sound of muffled voices from inside, but neither could make anything out of it, except for the tone, which clearly painted a portrait of two men arguing almost. The door opened to reveal John Watson looking rather annoyed. Inside Molly saw Sherlock and Mary, the latter positively beaming from her comfortable perch on the sofa, her large belly revealing the lateness in her pregnancy.

"I'm sorry, you're busy, I can come back later," Molly said.

"No, no, of course not! There is room for one more," Mary motioned for her to come in, her smile warm.

"Well, I best be on my way," Mrs. Hudson excused herself.

"Thank you," said Molly, taking a step into the flat

"Yes, thank you, Mrs H," John called back as he closed the door.

Mary patted the empty seat next to her, "Sit down, Molly, make yourself at home. John was just about to fix us a cup of tea."

"What?" John said, incredulously. "Me? Sherlock is the one who lives here."

"Yes, dear, but you used to too, remember?" Mary teased.

"Yes but-" he hissed, glaring at his wife, "-but not anymore."

"Come on, John, the tea!" Sherlock insisted.

John looked from his wife to his best friend, his mouth open in protest, but he forced himself to swallow his words. "Since when were you two best mates?"

"Since you married..." Sherlock stopped and glanced at Molly from the corner of his eye, not wanting to admit to her Mary's previous employment. Not yet anyway. "...such a charming and skilled woman."

Mary couldn't hold in her laughter.

"You two make me ill," John yammered.

"The tea, John," Mary reminded.

"Of course," he muttered, and went off to the kitchen.

"How have you been, Molly?" Mary asked, turning her full attention upon the pathologist in sincere interest. "Sherlock been bothering you lately?"

"Fine, I'm fine," Molly replied, ignoring the last part of the question. She cast a quick glance at Sherlock, thinking back to the last time she had seen him. He had just gotten back from what was supposed to be his exile. She remembered the way he looked at her, eyes filled with as much emotion she had only known him capable of because of one pervious encounter. Now, Sherlock seemed completely normal.

Well, as normal as can be expected of him.

"I had an unusual day at work," Molly changed the subject, "that is why I'm here."

"Unusual, how?" Mary prodded.

"Well, to start, there has been a recent spike in pneumonia fatalities," Molly said, trying to keep her voice steady.

"Peak influenza season," Sherlock remarked. "Not exactly what I would call unusual."

"Sherlock," Mary sighed and shook her head. He lifted an eyebrow, confused as to what he had said wrong.

John came by and handed his wife a steamy mug.

"Thank you." Mary took a sip as he gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze before heading back into the kitchen. John, without thinking, scratched his upper arm, a detail that did not go unnoticed by the consulting detective.

"Vaccines?" Sherlock asked Mary.

"Flu jab," she nodded. "He gets one every year, doesn't even need to book an appointment, they know he's coming over at Bart's, they probably set their watches to it. You know, Sherlock, it is suggested that you get one too, or anyone who plans on being near the baby," she instinctively rubbed her protruding belly.

"Sorry," started Molly, "but back to what I was saying..."

"Molly, how do you like your tea?" John asked from the kitchen.

"Two sugars, thank you," Molly replied, then gave another attempt to telling her story. "There was a recent spike in deaths-"

"You've said this already," Sherlock interrupted, clearly not interested.

"-caused by pneumonia-"

"Thank you John," Sherlock said as John handed him his tea.

"-I didn't-thank you," Molly paused as she took the tea from John before continuing, "I didn't think-"

Sherlock suddenly spat out the tea he had just sipped, coughing as if he were choking "John, what is this? You of all people know how I like my tea!"

"If you don't like it," John said, annoyed, "you can make it yourself."

Sherlock muttered something incoherently; John shooting him a nasty stare.

"May I PLEASE get back to what I was saying?" Molly shouted uncharacteristically, succeeding in grabbing the full attention of the room. Nobody moved, except Mary, who went back to beaming.

"As I was saying," she sighed, "I didn't think anything of it, not at first, but, on a hunch, I decided to further examine the bodies."

"And what did you find?" Sherlock ask, almost bored.

"Well, to be frank, nothing."

Sherlock didn't seem to register what Molly said, not at first. He blankly stared off to some corner of his room, until John interrupted the uncomfortable silence.

"You found...nothing?"

"Yes, but I have a feeling that-" Molly started.

"Why did you come here?" Sherlock interrupted. "Surely there is someone else you can bother with your feelings, Molly, the police, perhaps? With such incriminating evidence as you have surely you'd have an arrest within minutes if you went to George."

"Greg," Molly corrected halfheartedly.

"Sherlock, really, you can be a real d-" John hesitated, glancing at the two women in the room, "prick."

"Molly. You expect me to help you investigate into a murder, to which you cannot even be sure the victims are victims. You have no evidence, no cause of death, and very possibly, no murder?" Sherlock asked, completely serious, with increased intensity as his eyes bored into Molly's.

John looked put off at his comment, but Sherlock didn't notice. Molly pressed her lips together, holding back a few choice words.

"It's not like I came to you to help me find those things!" her voice raised a hair above the acceptable indoor level. "You don't have to help me." Her last statement struck a chord with Sherlock, who's face softened as he straightened his back.

"My apologizes, Molly, of course I will help you," Sherlock's tone deepened, replacing it's sarcasm with genuine kindness. Decidedly, he stood up, walking right over the coffee table toward the front door, majestically swirling on his signature Belstaff coat, then turned to face his company. "It was getting a bit dull, John. Mary, you have my sincerest apologies, but I must cut our afternoon short."

"Dull?" John spat.

"Where are you going?" piped in Molly.

"With you, of course," Sherlock replied. "To Bart's Morgue to examine the bodies, obviously."

"Mind if we join you?" Mary asked.

"Mary, don't encourage him," John asked, purposefully standing up. "Sherlock, she already said she found nothing."

"Yes, she found nothing, doesn't mean nothing is there. Come on then, Mary. Molly," he nodded to each woman as he said their names, handing them their coats. "John?" He held out the doctor's coat. John hesitated for a moment, gripping the arms of his chair. Mary caught his eye.

"Fine."

In Bart's morgue, Sherlock and John stood hunched over the first of six bodies Molly had pulled out for them.

"When I first began to suspect, there were just five, one more died since Dr. Culver didn't show up to work today"

"Failed to mention that detail," Sherlock noted.

"Of course," she ignored him, "technically speaking, COD is pneumonia, HAP, but of course they needed to have their immune system suppressed first."

"HAP?" asked Mary.

"Hospital-acquired pneumonia," whispered John.

"Ah."

"You have double checked for anything suspicious of course, any poison?" Sherlock asked, looking through his magnifying glass at the bodies, examining carefully.

"Yes," Molly nodded, "tested for all the ones I could."

"John, what's wrong with this picture?" Sherlock muttered, his nose practically touching a cadaver's foot as he peered through his magnifying glass.

"How do you mean?" asked John.

Sherlock ignored his lack of answer. "Mary?"

"Unlikely these are victims of a serial murderer," Mary mused out loud.

"Mmmmm, yes," agreed Sherlock. "What's the one thing these people have in common, John?"

"Well, they are all dead?"

"Dead?" Sherlock looked almost surprised, taking a moment away from his magnifying glass to glance back at John.

"They are all here, at Bart's," Molly blurted out before Sherlock could continue.

"Thank you, Molly," Sherlock gave her a slight smile. "Serial killer wouldn't be so careless to have all of his victims at the same hospital, too easy to be discovered, especially when he went through all that trouble to make their deaths seem natural. No, much more likely there is something else that connects them." He turned toward the pathologist. "Tell me, Molly, is the hospital suspicious of an outbreak?"

Molly pressed her lips together, not liking where this was going. "No."

"And why is that?"

"Though they have all died in rather close proximity to each other, and all in the ICU, they were all in different rooms, scattered about, no connecting vents or such of the usual culprits that would lead to suspicions of an outbreak."

"Then, please do tell, what is the basis to your hunch?"

"Well," she fiddled with her rubber gloves, unsure of how to say it. "I was coming off the lift when I quite literally bumped into Dr. Culver. He was out of breath, like he had been running. I didn't think anything of it until I got back to the morgue, once I opened the door, immediately I knew someone had been inside. Someone had been in here and disturbed some of the bodies, specifically, these ones."

"How could you tell?" John asked.

"John, trust me, I know my morgue, I know how I left it," she said, drawing out a grin from Sherlock. "I thought it rather odd that he would be looking at seemingly normal deaths. That's when I decided to re-examine the bodies. Their lungs were full of discharge, consistent with the pneumonia, indeed they all died of HAP, they all were in the ICU previous to contracting the HAP, all with unrelated immune suppressing conditions."

"One HIV, three with varying types of cancer, one recovering from heart surgery complications, and finally COPD, on a ventilator support," Sherlock observed from the corpses. "Am I right?"

John begged Molly with his eyes not to respond, but she nodded anyway, causing the doctor to sigh loudly.

"So seemingly unrelated patients," started John, "all who have nothing in common except Bart's, all die normal deaths caused by a disease that isn't at all uncommon for people in their , not murder?"

"Wrong," Sherlock said. John waited for him to continue, but he didn't.

"How am I wrong?"

Sherlock only looked at Molly, as if waiting for her cue.

"D-Dr. Culver," Molly stammered.

"Who?" asked John.

"These patients all have someone in common, Dr. Culver," Molly explained.

"Rather jumping the gun, sorting out a suspect when you can't be sure of the murderer?" muttered John. "How can you be so sure we are handling a murder case after all?"

"Intuition, John," Sherlock lifted his coat collar, "Molly, check with the other hospitals, run a cross examination of all the pneumonia cases, I want to know of all other similar cases out there."

Molly nodded as she glanced down at her mobile as it buzzed with a text.

"John, you need to find Dr. Culver and talk to him," Sherlock instructed. "Details, John, I need details."

"Wait," Molly mumbled,

John paused, hand frozen on the door of the morgue, handle turned a quarter ways.

"Sherlock," she gasped, unable to tear her eyes from her mobile, "I know where Dr. Culver is."

"Oh good, where is he?"

"He's...he's dead."

* * *

** Thanks for reading, I'll have the next chapter up very soon, I pinky swear!**


	3. Part Two

**If you have originally read the first two chapters of this back in July or August, please reread chapter 2, I have changed some things. A lot of things. Also, I have done almost all of my typing on my iPad, so if you see a weird autocorrect error, please let me know! I do my best to proof read but I'm only human. Thank you!**

* * *

Sherlock unzipped the body bag, his right eye enlarged by his magnifying glass. Leaving no square inch unexplored, he examined the doctor's thoroughly while John and Mary questioned the nurses and doctors on staff at Bart's.

"You don't want to question them yourself?" John asked, clearly remembering how unhappy Sherlock always is with John's questioning capabilities.

"No, no, much too busy," he started applying a pressure to Dr. Culver's spleen.

John sighed, his impatience showing. "Sherlock," he glanced over his shoulder at Molly, who preoccupied herself with scribbling notes from her on going tests. John dropped his voice to just above a whisper. "This isn't like you, to show interest in something that may turn out to just be a coincidence, if it was anyone else, you would have laughed in their face."

Sherlock muttered something about the universe that John couldn't fully catch.

"Sorry, what?"

"Nothing." Sherlock gazed intently upon Dr. Culver's right index finger.

"You're really doing this, then?"

"Yup," Sherlock made a popping noise with his lips for emphasis.

"Okay. Well, if there is nothing more I can do, then-"

"Plenty more you can do," Sherlock suddenly stabbed the dead doctor with a rather sinister looking syringe. "John, if you don't mind, can you question the staff, particularly those that worked rather close with Dr. Culver. See if anyone noticed any strange behavior, like Molly described."

"And if I do mind?" he retorted. One sideways glance from Mary, and he ate his words, immediately excusing himself from the morgue. "Right, best be off."

"I'll join him," Mary explained as she followed her husband.

* * *

Sherlock and Molly worked quietly for about five minutes until he straightened his bent figure, quickly placing his magnifying glass back in his pocket, signifying he felt he completed his examination of the body.

"Well?" Molly asked, trying not to sound anxious.

"Inconclusive."

Molly's mouth hung open slightly, as if she couldn't decide what to say, or to say anything at all.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked while preparing a few slides.

"John has a point," she started. "Why _are_ you helping me?"

"We are dealing with a murderer, why is that so confusing?" he stated as if it was as plain as the curls on his head.

"Thank you," she turned to walk away, but decided against it, and continued. "So you believed me, then, back at your flat, that it looked like murder?"

"Until our friend, Dr. Culver, here decided to pay us a visit, I can't say I did, no."

"Then why did you come? And don't say because you owe me, because we both know you don't."

"Like I told John earlier, intuition."

"Yours?"

"No, yours."

"You trust my intuition?"

"Molly, I find it distasteful that you would out so little trust in yourself." He resisted the urge to point out that if he trusted her, that should be enough For the both of them.

The conversation fell into an uncomfortable lull, so Molly, who felt somewhat satisfied with the answers he provided, returned to her work. She would have to remember to ask him to expand upon this later, after he solved the case. Or chalked it up to a fool's errand. Whichever.

Sherlock fixed a slide with a few drops of blood from the doctor, and slipped it under a microscope.

* * *

"Did you notice anything suspicious about Dr. Culver's behavior?" John questioned. The news of Dr. Culver's death had reached all the staff now. Many red and puffy eyes were to be seen. Angelina was no exception, though she did seem to speak more coherently than most of the others.

"N-no," she sniveled. "I can't say that I have. He was always serious, you know, with work." She took a moment to blow her nose into a tissue.

"He didn't seem panicked or nervous in anyway?"

"I can't say that he did." Her voice got stuck as yet another tear ran down his cheek. "He loved his patients, up until recently, he always...always put them first."

"Recently? So, what happened recently?"

"Well, you know, see, er, well, I didn't know he was...I mean I thought he was just talking long breaks, late for his shift, he was just...over worked, you know. He just looked so...tired, circles under his eyes, lost a little weight, nothing unusual with the stress and all. I-I had no idea..." she burst into tears again, burying her face in her hands, wiping her eyes with a used tissue.

"When did you see him last?"

Angelina's eyes fluttered. "Why? Do you suspect," she mouthed the words _foul play_ so no one else would overhear.

"Can't write that off just yet, can I?" he smiled at her. "So, do you recall the last time you saw him?"

"Must have just been a normal day," she replied, her eyes drifting left onto something distant. She jerked her head back suddenly, her eyes back in focus, and promptly began crying into her crumpled and very drenched tissue.

"Thank you," John handed her a new tissue. "Sorry for your loss."

He excused himself from the room and headed to the stairwell to return to the morgue. Most of the interviews he had sounded just like that last one. No one wanted to say anything bad about their former coworker, most of the women just broke down in tears, and a few of the men.

At the stairwell he caught site of his wife coming up the stairs. "ah, I was wondering where you hobbled off to."

"I do not hobble," she retorted, visibly putting extra effort into her steps now. "I just had to go to the ladies room. What did I miss?"

"That's your third time this hour?"

"What can I say, your daughter has taken a liking to napping on my bladder."

"Well, save yourself the trouble next time, there is a restroom down the hall that way, you don't have to exert yourself going up and down stairs all the time."

"I'm fine," Mary insisted, taking a seat on a hall bench and exhaling loudly. "What did I miss?"

"Well, no need to keep interviewing the staff, not any more today, it's too fresh, I'm not getting anything useful."

"Then sit with me for a minute." Mary pecked her husbands cheek, smiling so lovely. John wrapped his arm around her, she leaned her head on his should, he put his chin on her head.

"I love you."

"I love you too."

"What did you find?" Sherlock quizzed the moment John stepped through the morgue door, not looking away from the engrossing box of files he was rummaging through. Molly still attended to the body of the recently deceased doctor.

"Good afternoon to you too," John retorted.

"Anything interesting?" Sherlock

"No."

"Nothing at all?"

"Not as far as I could see."

"What did they say?" He spared a second of looking at the computer to glare at his former flat mate.

"They said the stuff you usually expect when taking about their coworker that died that day. Nice man, lived his work, lots of tears."

"Emotions are utter rubbish." Sherlock stated, "always getting in the way."

"Try and be sympathetic," John pleaded, uselessly.

"We've been over this before, how will sympathy assist me?"

"Are you serious right now?"

"Yes, completely."

John took a deep breath and closed his eyes, and decided to stop. "Mary is tired, I'm going to take her home. Text me if you need anything."

As John slammed the door behind him, Sherlock took out his mobile to read a new text from Mary.

Thought you'd enjoy these. -MW

"Give Mary my love."

* * *

The late doctor's office was messy. Files hadn't been organized away, books were scattered. But only recently had the untidiness set in. Older files were tucked away in an impenetrable filing system, most of the draws were organized except for two. Mary briefly glanced around, taking pictures on her mobile and making mental notes of every details Sherlock might quiz her on: paperweights, pens, books, a music box, a photo of two young boys. His sons. In his garbage was old food wrappers, a browned banana peel, a wad of brown paper and some string. It hadn't been emptied for a while, judging on the smell. She quickly sent the pictures and hurried back upstairs to John.

* * *

Sherlock removed his latex gloves, tossing them nonchalantly into the bin. Molly busily buzzed around, knee deep in tests and paused a moment, looking at a Petrie dish, then a soft "ah-ha" escaped her lips. Her serious face broke into a genuine smile.

"Anything?" he inquired to his lab partner.

"Actually, yes."

* * *

**Thanks for reading!**


	4. Part Three

"John, do try not to cough," Sherlock said without looking away from the computer screen. He was going through some of the patient records, the legality of his actions questionable at best.

"I'm sorry, what?" John asked, puzzled. Sherlock didn't look away from the computer. At that moment, John felt an itch in this throat, he tried to swallow but it was still there. He attempted to cleared his throat as quietly as he could, which only made it worse, so he to muffled a cough in the sleeve of his jacket.

"Yes, that, exactly."

"You don't want me to cough?"

"It's annoying."

Just when John thought he knew what to expect from Sherlock, that madman always said something that threw him for a loop.

"I wasn't coughing," John said, holding back the urge to do just that. "Not before, I wasn't coughing before that last one." Then his chest betrayed him, feeling constricted, forcing him to cough again.

Sherlock turned away from the computer to give John a disapproving look.

"Are you serious right now?" John asked, incredulously. Before Sherlock could reply with a undoubtably snarky comment, the door to the lab swung open, and Molly came bustling in toward them.

Molly had been finishing the autopsy on Dr. Culver's body. Second, of course, to that of Sherlock. As expected, Sherlock's original deductions stood true, the doctor had died earlier that day right here at Bart's, from apparently a very bad case of pneumonia. His wife came home to find him passed out on their stairwell and took him to his place of work for emergency treatment. The pneumonia was abundant in his lungs by then, and there really isn't much anyone can do to fight a viral infection. Even though, the virus seemed incredibly strong in a supposedly health man. How the virus even could infect him was the very fact that puzzled Molly, since a typical, healthy immune system can easily feign off pneumonia.

"Any theories?" John asked, muffling another cough.

Sherlock glanced at him just a bit too long, causing John to clear his throat.

"Yes, eleven actually," he said, turning back to Molly. "Have you heard any news from other hospitals?"

"A few, nothing yet."

Molly seemed in unusually good spirits for a woman who just stumbled upon a possible murder case. But she had always been rather chipper.

"Are you going to clue me in to a few of your theories?"

"Yes." Sherlock made no effort to continue.

John glanced at Molly, who quickly attempted to look busy with a plethora of test tubes, dropping a couple on the floor. She winced as the glass shattered.

"Sorry," she squeaked.

"Okay, so is this definitely murder?" John inquired .

"Possible." Sherlock murmured as he scrolled some more on the computer.

"Serial killer? Someone after a doctor and his patience?"

No answer.

"How did the doctor get sick, though, that seems off."

"Poison, John." Sherlock interceded.

"So you did find traces of poison?" he asked. "I thought that was ruled out."

"When all other possibilities have been eliminated-"

"Yes, yes, got it, but you have proof, you have found the poison?"

"Yes."

"Which one?"

"Dioxin."

"Ah," John knew about the effects Dioxin had on Horne body. "Killer poisons his victims, but not to actually kill them, just weakens the victims, attacking their immune systems."

"Until any number of usually mild diseases comes along, and finishes the job," Sherlock finished. "Brilliant."

"Leaves a lot to chance, doesn't it?" John noted. "So, they were definitely all poisoned?"

"No time now, John, can't you see I'm busy?" He scrolled the wheel on the mouse, doing his best to look incredibly bored.

Molly gave John a sympathetic look, but made no other effort to fill him in. John hated it when Sherlock purposefully kept him out of the loop for whatever reason, but knew better than to press much further at the moment.

"Mary is waiting," he announced as he gathered his things and departed. Molly watched him leave, shooting Sherlock as disapproving glare which he ignored.

"You should be kinder to your friends," Molly lectured, pulling off her latex gloves, having a bit of trouble with the left one.

When Sherlock made no attempt to respond she continued to her work, she had other bodies to attend to today. Just then, Sherlock broke his gaze with the computer, stopping Molly with his eyes.

"You look rather nice today. Is that a new necklace? Really becomes you."

"Flirting? Aren't we past all that?" She held her ground, but her fingers betrayed her, unconsciously touching her necklace.

"Right, of course, my apologies, old habit," he stood up, turning his entire body toward Her.

"If you need a favor, you can just ask," she looked at him expectantly.

"I am asking," he countered. She narrowed her eyes in warning, until he added in a high pitched tone, "please?"

"Are you feeling okay? Is it about the other night?" she guessed. He looked down at her slightly, his eyes foreboding and serious; she realized that she had indeed hit the nail on the head, though that wasn't what he was initially requesting her to help with. Instinctively, she glanced around her shoulders. "You can tell me, er, if it's safe to talk?"

"Always assume it's never safe, not presently."

"Mycroft said anything yet?"

"He's keeping his distance."

"I take it you haven't told John."

"Not yet."

"So no one else knows?" She shouldn't feel so surprised that he naturally cut out his best friend from the important things. Had she really expected anything else from Sherlock?

"Wiggins, obviously," he replied. "But I would prefer no one else."

"I can keep a secret."

"I know."

"I'm sorry, got off topic, what is it you needed?"

Sherlock handed her a bundle of cloth, at first glance she gathered he wrapped one of his shirts around a small box. "I need you to teat this for me."

* * *

"Sherlock is acting strange." John immediately told Mary when he finally arrived home from Bart's.

"Is that supposed to be news, dear?" Mary asked, fixing the tea. Her phone buzzed with a new text.

"Mary, I wish you would let me do that," John chided his pregnant wife as she set the cups on the tray.

"Nonsense, John, I'm pregnant, not ill," she scooped out some sugar for her tea, adding only cream to John's. "I would go mad if I couldn't do even simple things because of my worried husband." Lifting the tray with one hand, she made her way to the front room to join him.

"There is definitely something he is not telling me," John sneered. "Wouldn't be the first time."

On her way to the sofa she stopped by the thermostat, turning the heater up a few degrees with her pinky.

"You make it too easy to keep things from you," she teased.

John glared at the woman who called herself Mary Watson.

"What? Too soon?" She laughed, cuddling up on the sofa. A chill swept over her, causing her to rub her arms. "Hand me that blanket, would you? I'm am completely frozen."

John tossed the blanket over to her, wiping the sweat off his brow with his other hand.

* * *

"I've been looking into that Doctor Culver, he is considered the best attending doctor to the ICU, groundbreaking research, really up and coming." John sat in his chair in Sherlock's flat. Mary had pushed him to get out of the house for a bit this morning, which usually meant go visit Sherlock.

"Hmm, yes." Sherlock did not look up from the Sunday paper.

"Dr. Smith and Dr. Culver often butted heads, nothing serious, just friendly competition, apparently," John mulled over his notes from the interviews from Friday.

"I wouldn't describe it as 'friendly'," Sherlock muttered, turning the page. "You've been interviewing them all wrong, John, you need to get the gossip, the uncensored version."

"Right, and how do you suggest I get that?"

"Do what I do."

"No, I'd rather not."

"Fine."

Sherlock sat for a while on silence, reading a short article about a pig who supposedly walked across the country of France to find the body of his owner who had been brutally murdered, when he folded over the top of the paper to peer at John.

"How has your health been recently?"

"Fine, I'm fine,"

Sherlock studied his friends face, reading the lie.

"Oh my God, Sherlock, what do you know?"

"It's probably nothing."

"No, it's never nothing with you, what did you find?"

"I can't show friendly concern for ones health?" Sherlock's eyes mimicked that of a puppy, causing John to sigh loudly.

"So, do you think Moriarty is still alive?" John changed the subject. When Sherlock did not immediately reply, John continued. "You doing that thing again."

"What thing?"

"That thing where you already solved the murder but you let it play out for your own self benefit. I've never seen you take this long on a case like this before. Either your deductive skills are slipping or this is part of the game."

"I don't pretend to have any idea what you are talking about," Sherlock looked at his watch. The door bell rang. "Ah, right on time."

"Are you expecting someone?"

"No, you are."

"No, I don't think I am."

"Sure you are," Sherlock opened the door just as a woman John had interviewed at the hospital came up the stairs.

"Hope I am not late?" she said.

"No, no, right on time," Sherlock guided her into the flat, having her sit on the couch. "Dr. Watson would like to follow up with you, from the other day."

John glared at Sherlock. "I'm sorry, I seem to have forgotten your name, miss...?"

"Angelina."

"Right. Can you give me a moment, please, Angelina?"

"Sure."

"Thank you." John smiled at their guest while ushering Sherlock just outside the door, dropping his voice to a low whisper. "Why do you insist upon making me conduct interviews, when clearly, you are not satisfied with my results?"

"Practice, John, you need it. So here you are. Besides I think you missed something key on this one."

"You already know what it is, why won't you just tell me?"

"Terribly busy, sorry," Sherlock tightened his scarf, "hate to walk out on you again, but pressing matters await. Please, do feel obliged to stay."

"Where are you going in such a rush, I thought you never left the flat for anything below a seven."

"The point?"

"This is hardly a six."

"Hmm, yes." Sherlock didn't say another word, shutting the door loudly to 221B Baker Street.

"Sorry about that, Angelina," John said, returning to the flat and taking a seat across from the woman. "You are a nurse at Bart's, right?"

* * *

The door knob jiggled. Molly had grown accustom to an on again off again roommate of sorts, though he did have a key. She noticed Toby seemed on edge, which immediately sent tingles up her spine as she slipped out of the bed as quietly as she could manage, pulling out the small six-shooter that Sherlock had insisted she keep on her at all times. Leaning against her bedroom door, she quieted her breathing to better listen for the intruder. The silence rang louder and louder in her mind. She gently turned the handle and gave the door a slight nudge. It swung open, revealing her empty front room. Her heart I. Her throat, she peered her head around the side of the door frame, and caught sight of a large figure sitting in her arm chair. She reacted instantly, drawing the gun out in front her, her finger on the trigger, ready to give it a squeeze.

"Good evening, Miss Hooper," greeted the shadow.

"Mycroft!" her heart pounded. "You gave me a fright." She dropped the gun to her side, breathing carefully in an attempt to bring down her racing heartbeat.

"Good to see my brother has armed you," he noted with familiar distaste in his voice.

Molly didn't respond, though she didn't put down the gun either.

"Ah, I see," he smirked, knowing the game. "Do pass along a message to my little brother, won't you?"

"You have his number," she retorted, her eyes followed the intruder as he nonchalantly stood up and strutted across her flat.

"I know what you and Sherlock are up to," he threatened. "And I don't like where things are headed. Consider this my first and only warning. Stop now, before someone, namely you, gets hurt."

"You know I can't do that," Molly blurted out a split second too quickly. She grimaced at her own haste.

"Oh, can't you?" Mycroft smirked, a playful glint in his eyes. "My brother is right, you can be incredibly useful at times. Perhaps an arrangement can be made?"

She opened her mouth to protest, however, an uncharacteristic thought occurred to her, changing her mind. "What sort of arrangement?"

* * *

**Please leave a comment before you go in your way! Next chapter will be up shortly. :)**


	5. Part Four

Back at Sherlock's flat, Molly stood facing the detective, her arms crossed, clearly a little more than frustrated with him at the moment. She glanced at her mobile, still on the text conversation she had with Sherlock earlier.

_Mycroft paid me a visit last night. - MH_

_I'll be there in 5 - SH_

She regretting texting him that morning, but Molly knew better than to try and keep things from Sherlock. He sifted through her flat like a dog, rifling through books, pulling out all her sofa cushions, and reorganizing most of her possessions. He left as soon as he finished, not really leaving it in the state it had been previous to his visit. Outright refusing to talk at her flat, though he himself could not find any traces of a bug, Sherlock dragged Molly to his flat to discuss the situation.

"Where was he, what did he touch?" He prompted, dropping himself down in his chair.

"I told you, he just sat in the chair, and then he left. I didn't see him touch anything other than the chair and the doorknob, and you thoroughly check those. Of course, I cannot account for when he first entered, as he let himself in."

"What did he say to you?"

"He told me he knew what we were doing," she recalled. "Told me to stop."

"And?"

"I told him no."

"Good. Anything else?"

"Nope."

Sherlock did a double take, his glance lasted a little too long, making Molly feel a touch uneasy, but moved on.

"Have you had any other visitors lately?"

"Of course, I've had some friends over from work-"

"An ex-boyfriend, perhaps?"

Molly glared at Sherlock, fully understanding his implications and not appreciating them in the slightest.

Sherlock dropped his gaze, not in defeat, rather, deflection, pulling out his mobile from his pocket as it buzzed with an incoming call.

"Hello?" he answered quickly, pacing around the room. "Good. No, that's all."

Molly glared expectantly.

"Thanks..." He added before hanging up. "Perfect, we have everything we need. I'll text John."

_Urgent matters require your presence at Baker Street, come immediately - SH_

"That should do it," Sherlock smirked. Before he could put his mobile away, it buzzed with a text.

_It'll have to wait, I'm having lunch with the wife. - JW_

"John...," Sherlock cursed to himself, clearly put off. He typed furiously as Molly peered over his shoulder to get a look, he started to compose a text to Mary.

_I need John, sen-_

She yanked the mobile out of his hands, placing it behind her back, startling Sherlock. She took a deep breath. "If John says he is busy, he is busy."

"But this is important."

"Stop bossing him around."

Sherlock gaped at Molly, his hands still out as if they hadn't registered the mobile was missing yet. He blinked a few times, looking hurt. "I don't boss him around." He defended.

Molly shot him a look of disbelief.

"That's not bossy, is it?"

"You tell him where to be without regard to his wants and needs, that's bossy."

"But he's never where I need him to be anymore."

"Sherlock," Molly sighed. "I get it, things have changed since you got back. John's moved out, he's married, things will never be the same between you. I know it can hurt to think that your friends can function without you but-"

"You all functioned perfectly fine before you met me," Sherlock interrupted, tilting his head to the side like a curious puppy. "Why would that bother me now?"

"Don't pretend it doesn't," she insisted. "You had a good thing going before you left, you had friends who doted on you, a roommate who helped you solve crime, a way of life you felt comfortable with, but that's the problem, nothing lasts. People move on. Time doesn't stand still, not even for the great Sherlock Holmes."

"You moved on."

"I-I did."

"I'm sorry it didn't work out."

"Don't be, it was for the best." She turned away, not really wanting to continue the discussion of Tom with him.

"I suppose it was selfish of me to have expected you to wait."

Every muscle in Molly's body immediately froze, her face stunned as if recently slapped. She struggled to find the words.

"Yes, incredibly selfish."

She whipped around toward him as realization struck, releasing a frustrated laugh. "That's what you want, isn't it? You need me to be stuck on you; I'm more useful to you that way."

"That's not what I meant."

"Has it ever occurred to you to ask? You will be amazed at the amount of things people will do for you with a simple 'please' and 'thank you' once in a while." Molly spoke softly, but with a stern force hard to overlook. She had it in her mind to storm out of the room, took two rushed steps when Sherlock firmly snagged her arm, twisting her around until they were barely a nose apart. Blood rushed to her cheeks as she looked into his eyes, he silently begged her to stay.

"Molly, I-"

"Sherlock, what can possibly be so import...oh, hi Molly," John waltzed into the room, taking in the scene before him for a split second before Sherlock let go of Molly's arm and she scooted herself as far away from the detective as possible in less than three steps.

"Sorry, John, I was on my way out," she muttered. "Good afternoon."

John watched as she left, waiting to hear the front door slam before turning to his best friend. His mouth was open, slowly forming the words. "What was that?"

"You look awful," observed Sherlock, ignoring his question. John look, in short, like a train wreck. Dark circles visible under his eyes, his skin pale and tired looking, the blood vessels gave his eyes a pink glow, and his hair was ruffled with obvious attempts to brush it under control. He had been keeping to his bed, yet didn't get much sleep, not to mention the obvious signs of illness.

"I didn't get a good sleep, that all." John explained.

"Right," Sherlock grunted.

"Sherlock, you said urgent, what is so urgent I had to abandon my pregnant wife at Charley's?" exclaimed John.

"The tests came back positive for dioxin," Sherlock sounded as if he were apologizing.

"Alright. What exactly was poisoned?" John seemed on edge, though trying to hide his anxiety.

"The vials, John, we don't have much time...," Sherlock suddenly seemed rushed, taking three large strides to his front door to grab his coat,

"What vials?"

"Influenza vaccine," he muttered, wrapping his scarf around his neck.

"The flu jab? Rather odd way to kill someone," John's eyebrows pinched together, the gears in his head turning rapidly. Something didn't sit right with him. "They can track that though, with the serial numbers on the vials? The nurses, they all keep impeccable records."

"Indeed, they have, John" he turned to shout up the stairwell outside his flat. "Mrs. Hudson! We are leaving!" Turning back to John, he continued at his usual volume, "John, downstairs now, get a cap."

"So you have traced the serials of the poisoned vials?"

"Indeed I did, John." Sherlock's face showed all signs of how serious this situation had become.

"You know who has been poisoned?"

An emotion passed over Sherlock's face that John had only seen a few times before. Concern. Then he remember what his wife had told Sherlock the other day.

_"Vaccines?" Sherlock asked Mary._

_"Flu jab," she nodded. "He gets one every year, doesn't even need to book an appointment, they know he's coming over at Bart's, they probably set their watches to it."_

"Sherlock, tell me, did I get the flu jab from the poisoned vial, did I get poisoned?" John was livid. A cab pulled to the side of the road.

Sherlock looked almost sympathetic as he opened the back door, "I'm sorry, John."

* * *

**Good news! Only one more chapter and an epilogue to go, and I've already finished writing them. I like to keep you in suspense**** though so I'll probably wait a couple of days until I post the last chapter. If you disagree with that, please comment. And also if you liked the story, please comment. Thanks for reading!**


	6. Part Five

"Bart's hospital, quickly," Sherlock commanded of the cabbie.

"Is there an antidote, there has to be an antidote."

"John."

"What? What? What can I do? There has to be something I can do!"

"John, I understand."

"No, no you don't, no, I'm...we are about to have a baby, I can't..."

"John, listen to me," Sherlock motioned toward his raving mad friend, "you need to rest, you will only exhaust yourself, think of Mary."

"I am thinking of Mary! Dammit!" he thrust his fist into the cab seat, quite ineffectively as the cushion just absorbed the hit. "Bloody hell, why does these things always happen to me?"

Tears burned the edges of his eyes, he took a deep breath of air but his lungs couldn't take it, they wouldn't fill. He gasped again, short shallow breathes, he could feel it inside him.

"Sherlock, I need medical attention," he gasped.

"Obviously." Sherlock put a hand on his friend's shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze.

John's vision blurred, his head spinning. "Sherlock, I-" he swayed, "I-I don't feel so well."

He fell forward, passing out.

* * *

They must have arrived at the hospital because John could make out the familiar sounds of a heart monitor, people rushing by, footsteps, lots of footsteps, someone kept saying his name...

"John, can you hear me?" Asked a woman's voice, one he almost recognized. The door shut, locked clicked in place, drowning out the buzz of the hospital outside his room. "John, listen to me, you need to stay with me."

"Where is Sherlock?" He tried to sit up, his eyes blurred. He could make out the white coat of the doctor approaching him, but couldn't see her face.

"Please, you need your rest," said the doctor as she placed a hand on his chest to keep him down. He knew he heard that voice before, but where?

"Okay," John exhaled slowly, aware of a familiar sweet scent lingering in his nose. He closed his eyes again, his thoughts clouded.

"Mr. Watson?" called the soothing voice of the doctor. He knew her, he just couldn't put a face to the voice. Rubbing his eyes, he squinted up at her, trying to make out her features.

"I didn't catch your name?"

"Dr. Smith," she replied, sitting next to his gurney. "A nurse will be in soon to give you your pain medication."

"Wait a minute," John willed his eyes to focus, "I know you. You-I thought you are a nurse, Angelina, aren't you?"

Smith smirked, a telling twinkle in her eyes. "Dr. Angelina Smith, actually. You assumed I was a nurse when you started poking your nose around where it didn't belong."

"You!" John gasped for air, "Y-you poisoned me!" The words came out slowly, as it hurt for him to speak.

"Shhhhh," she pressed a finger to his lips, he swatted at it like a fly. "Save your strength. You are dying, Mr. Watson."

John took a controlled breath. "How?" was all he could manage to mutter.

"Oh, I think you know how," she taunted. "I knew it was just a matter of time, though, the pneumonia did set it sooner than expected. On well, all the better for me."

John grunted.

"Did you know they only check for poison if the authorities suspect murder, and even then, only a handful of poisons are routinely screened for in autopsies these days. They don't even check for arsenic. It's sort of sad, really. So many poisons, so easy to slip in, unnoticed. The trick is to make it look natural, then no one will be the wiser."

"Why me?"

"Couldn't have you on my trail," Dr. Smith. "Besides, Dr. Culver deserved to die. That man stole my research and claimed it was his own. He should have been more careful. But just like you, he opened that music box, pricked his finger on the latch, that's all it takes, you know, a prick of the finger, the poison is introduced straight to the blood stream."

"Trying so hard to be clever," a deep voice startled the doctor. She whipped around as a dark figure appeared from seemingly nowhere, holding a gun pointed straight at her heart.

Smith hesitated, then jerked her hands toward the medical tools on the side table, but Sherlock jammed the barrel of the gun into the back of her head.

"Don't. Move." He spoke softly, but with blatant force.

Smith slowly lifted her hands over her shoulder, palms facing forward.

"Are you going to shoot me?" Smith asked, a tinge of humor in her tone.

"No, I'm going to arrest you."

"Arresting me won't save him," Smith said, her lips curled up in a twisted grin.

"Actually," John started, throwing his legs over the side of the gurney and standing up, holding his arms out beside him, brushing the lint off his sleeves, "I feel much better now, miraculous really."

"What?" Smith gasped.

"I know, right?" John laughed. "You really do work miracles. Just flabbergasted, I am."

"But, you were dying."

"No," Sherlock intervened, "you only thought he was dying. There was a slight hiccup to your plan."

"Pretty major hiccup, actually," John smirked. "I never pricked my finger on a music box."

"Dropping the murder weapon in the post?" Sherlock mocked. "Too easily intercepted."

"I don't understand," breathed Smith.

"See, I'm not the only one who says that," John noted.

"John," Sherlock indicated the door with a nod of his head. "Get Lestrade, he should be here by now. I'm just about to deconstruct this murder and I am not going to repeat myself."

"What do you have on me? You've got no proof!" Smith proclaimed.

"Oh no, we've got plenty," Sherlock briefly flashed the video he had recorded on his mobile of her entire confession to John.

John reentered the room followed quickly by Lestrade and Donovan, wasting no item to handcuff Dr. Smith.

"Oh, normal people," Sherlock chuckled softly, "so exceedingly simple."

"Well, out with it," DI Lestrade said, "or would you rather we remove her?"

"No, please, stay, makes it that much more fun," he smirked.

Donovan rolled her eyes and made a nauseated noise.

"The first six dead bodies were clues, but acted more in the sense of red herrings, distractions from the real victim," Sherlock started, obviously enjoying himself. "It wasn't until I could examine Dr. Culver did everything begin to make sense. There was only one intended target, the others were accidents, victims of HAP. Only one person was poisoned by Dioxin, a very toxic yet not necessarily fatal poison. It weakens the immune system, but doesn't actually kill it's victims, usually any ol' minor illness will do that, as the body would be unable to fight off any infection. After he was poisoned, it was just a matter of time before he contracted something, and in this case, pneumonia, which isn't uncommon in a hospital, especially the intensive care unit.

"Only question remaining, of course, who poisoned the doctor? Mary helped out by searching his office, nothing in particular stood out right away except for the fact that Dr. Culver had recently been frantically searching for something. In the pictures she sent me, I saw a music box. However, after John began questioning potential witnesses, I went back to check on the office and one thing was missing, the music box. That item was key. However, the killer was an idiot and left behind traces of how the music box got to Dr. Culver. The brown paper and the string in the waste bin, the address very legible, it was mailed to the hospital. Why would the killer send to his work? Why not his home? Quite possibly because he was a very private man, with no friends to speak of, no one knew where he lived. All he had listed in his records was a P.O. box, to which you cannot send parcels over a certain size, so, they sent it to Bart's. No return address, at least they had the common decency to leave that off, but the hand writing was clearly that of a woman's, one who didn't have to write legibly in their profession, as it were I'm surprised the parcel was, in fact, delivered correctly. So obviously this was done by someone who worked with him, first person to come to mind being the not-yet-famous Dr. Smith. A few years ago you filed a lawsuit against Dr. Culver, claiming he stole your research from his recent, and highly praised study on the deadly Crimean-Congo hemorrhagic fever virus. The court dismissed your case on lack of evidence. Pity, you should have come to me then, would have saved us all the trouble of arresting you."

Dr. Smith made a face.

"I had a suspect, a murder weapon, and motive, all within a few hours. I knew you were on edge, trying to cover your tracks, so I set up John as your next intended target."

"How did you know that she would target me next?" John asked.

"Lucky guess," Sherlock shrugged. "Besides, everyone is trying to kill you, it's like a rite of passage these days."

"You don't guess," John stated plainly.

"Ah, how right you are!" Sherlock turned back to his audience, positively beaming.

"I sent John to question the witnesses, and the music box went missing. I needed to affirm to the killer that indeed John was on to her, so I decided to test my hypothesis, inviting her over for a quick chat with John." Then I just needed to keep an eye on all incoming post which Mary did perfectly, and without John suspecting a thing, I had the murder weapon in my hands the next business day. A quick look over and I knew exactly how it worked, which you so kindly explained to us, Dr. Smith, in your little video. I had Molly take to the lab to test for dioxin, which of course it came back positive. Then it was just a matter of convincing John that he was poisoned."

His audience gazed upon him, hooked on his words, except John, of course, who couldn't get past the part where Sherlock tricked a doctor of all people into thinking they were dying.

"How could you possibly fake that. I really believed I was dying. Why didn't you just tell me?"

Sherlock grinned at John, then turned to address the room again. "If everyone could please not cough in the next ten minutes, that would be greatly appreciated."

"We're not coughing?" Lestrade said, confused. A moment of silence passed before Donovan coughed softly, causing Sherlock to make a soft "ah!" as his audience caught on.

"The power of suggestion is really quite alarming, isn't it? I had to make your performance believable, and John, you are a terrible liar. So I helped you along a bit by making it appear you were ill, and you did the rest yourself, brilliantly. Of course, Mary helped by turning up the heater, you thought you were running a fever as she swaddled herself in blankets. She went so far as nudging you during the night, not enough to wake you, obviously, but just enough to interrupt your sleep cycles, effectively preventing you from reaping the benefit of a full eight hours sleep, giving you that exhausted feeling. A self diagnosis was sure to follow."

"You made Mary wake up at night just I keep me from getting restful sleep? She's pregnant!"

"Exactly, I didn't make her do anything, your daughter sitting on her bladder kept waking her up for me, it was terribly convenient. Then, when I was sure you were suspicious enough, all I had to do was make up a silly story about poisoned flu jab vials and you were convinced. I may have helped things along by pressing a certain pressure point when I was helping you into the cab, just enough to make you feel weak and light headed. I didn't expect you to faint so quickly, nearly rendered the chloroform unnecessary, but I did use it to keep you knocked out on the taxi ride over. It made everything easier.

"Upon waking I knew you would recognize the sweet smell of the chloroform, and I had predicted, quickly correctly might I add, that you would catch on to my scheme and play along, which you did very well my friend. I mean really, bravo."

All eyes turned momentarily toward John, who smiled shyly. "Well, uh, the chloroform did most of the work."

"Naturally," Sherlock beckoned the attention of the room again, "I had to make certain the killer knew you were sick, which wasn't that hard considering she worked at Bart's. I, of course, waited for her to be at work before telling you anything, and as soon as I got that call, well, you know the rest.

"When we came into the ER I immediately requested the best, well, second best until recently, Dr. Smith. At first the attending wasn't so keen with the idea but then there really is hardly anyone you can't pay off these days. At that point all I had to do was hide and wait for Dr. Smith to arrive, hoping to catch some rather convincing evidence. And you, doctor, you did not disappoint. You waltzed right in, convinced John was dying, and then took the liberty to tell him every last detail! Which I, of course, recorded on my mobile. That wasn't very clever."

"Wow," sighed Lestrade. "You'd think I'd be used to this by now."

"You know, the really sad thing is that I might not have even stumbled upon this plot of yours, had Dr. Culver not discovered it first. He was the originally intended victim, but he messed things up when he discovered he had been poisoned, and ran down to the morgue, tipping off Molly. Down in the morgue he saw most of his patients from the ICU, dead, from pneumonia. That, of course, was an unfortunate side effect, only one sick patient was required to infect Dr. Culver, but after he contracted it, he unknowingly infected his other more vulnerable patients before he passed. You should really be more careful."

"Wait a second, what tipped off Molly?" Lestrade asked.

"Intuition," Sherlock explained. "She suspected something, but couldn't prove it, but her gut told her something wasn't right."

Met with blank states, Sherlock took the liberty to explain his reasoning. "There was a study done, where people were given three curtains to choose from and had to guess which curtain was hiding the object. This test was conducted on the computer, of course, so they were virtual curtains, and the object was unimportant. Naturally, people had a one in three chance of guessing correctly, however, those that followed their gut feeling, their intuition, would increase their odds from thirty-three percent to about eighty percent after as little as ten tries. Often times, participants would make a correct guess before the computer had even decided which curtain the object was behind. How is that possible? The subconscious part of the human brain collects more information about one's surrounding than an average conscious brain, myself excluded, of course, making intuition a very powerful tool. People often ignore it as they become placid with their first world lives. I suggest, Lestrade, you start listening to it."

Sherlock poked Lestrade's gut to emphasize his point before he took out his phone.

"In the meantime, I will send you a copy of that video, Lestrade, I'm sure it will be very popular in court. Good evening, Dr. Smith," Sherlock dismissed his audience.

Taking their cue, Lestrade and Donovan ushered the murderous Dr. Smith out of the hospital, headed back to Scotland Yard. Sherlock didn't move, his mind wandering off into something dark.

"So Molly knew the entire time?" John asked him.

"Yes," Sherlock snapped back to the present.

"You two seem to be spending a lot of time together, are you two, erm..."

"No." Sherlock's voice put an immediate end to all those inquiries. John still had one more question,

"Maybe this is the wrong time to ask," he said, "but, would you have suspected murder, you know, if Molly hadn't tipped you off and I'd been poisoned?"

"Irrelevant, You wouldn't have been a target in the first place."

"Yes, but if I _had_ been poisoned, and died a seemingly natural death, would you have investigated?"

"Of course, John," Sherlock remarked, patting his friend a little too hard on his back. "When you die it will take a lot of convincing to persuade Mary and I that you weren't indeed murdered."

"That's...comforting."

John stared at Sherlock, neither blinking, Sherlock completely serious. Soon his expression softened into a smile, which involuntarily morphed into a soft chuckle, eventually erupting into an uncontrolled laugh. John resisted as long as he could, but he could only hold back the laughs for so long before giving in. The two men, giggling like school boys, tears streaming from their eyes.

"My God! You are ridiculous," John exclaimed, sighing loudly. "Utterly ridiculous! Please, remind me, why are we friends?"

"I have absolutely no idea."

* * *

**I just want to say, this marks a huge chapter in my life. I have never finished a story of mine, ever. This was also fanfiction so it's a bit easier than an original idea. Plus, if you noticed, borrowed all my plot ideas from Sir Conan Doyle himself. **

**But wait, there's more! There is still an epilogue to come, I know not all loose ends were tied up yet and that was intentional. I will explain why in the epilogue, which will be posted in a few days. Thanks, as always, for reading and your continued support!**

**P.S. I've already written almost half of the sequel to this, which can also act as a stand alone, I will be posting the first chapter along with the epilogue. It promises to be more exciting and romantic (for you Sherlolly fans) than this. I realize not a lot really happened here. Oh well, practice, practice practice!**


	7. Epilogue

"Bad form, Mycroft, you've really shown your hand back there," Sherlock smirked. He faced his older brother in the government provided limo, headed back home. Just moments ago he sat aboard a jet on his way to Eastern Europe on a suicide mission. He knew his brother would intervene somewhere along the plan, whisking him to safety and taking all the credit even though Sherlock would have done most the work, but he hadn't expected it so soon. Mycroft glanced outside the car window, holding his chin up with his palm. Sherlock put a lot of effort into his goodbye with John, seemed all but wasted effort now.

"Don't blame me for this, my dear brother." Mycroft dusted a hair off his slacks, placing his right hand purposefully upon his lap as he turned his forced smile upon Sherlock. "If I hadn't known better, I'd think it was you."

"Couldn't possibly be Moriarty."

"Heavens no, of course not."

"Your men, how close are they?"

"They were close. Until you had to destroy the only ace in my hand. Really Sherlock, when I said Magnussen was under my protection, it wasn't an invitation to blast his brains out."

"You should be more clear next time," he rolled his eyes.

"Look what sentiment has done to you."

"Stop caring about who or what I care about," he growled. "Annoying."

An uneasy silence filled the town car. Mycroft uncrossed and recrossed his legs; Sherlock remained perfectly still.

"I meant what I said, Sherlock," Mycroft grumbles. "You go against Magnessun you will find yourself going against me. Now it's just a matter of time."

"Of course," Sherlock pressed his hands together under his chin, his thoughts heavy with implications.

"It would be wise to stay away from Baker Street, presently." Mycroft advised, not looking Sherlock in the eye.

"My thoughts exactly."

* * *

Three knocks. Medium force. Evenly spaced.

Molly grabbed her robe, shrugging it on to her shoulders, quickly tying a messy knot as she shuffled toward her bedroom door. Of course he left himself in, at least he had the decency to knock instead of just barging into her room, like last time. She silently opened her chest of drawers, quickly grabbed the first outfit she could find in the dark, stuffing them in her pillowcase. Holding the pillow under her right arm, she turned the knob and cracked it just enough to makes out his tall, dark figure standing in the dim light of her living room. His face hidden in the darkness, but his telling curls illuminated by the lamp behind him gave him away.

"Give me a minute," she mumbled sleepily.

Sherlock opened the door completely, allowing a bit more light in so she could finish gathering her things to sleep in the guest room. After all, they had agreed. Or actually, he persuaded her. It was fine.

"I need to talk to you."

"Miss your flight?" she wondered out loud, grabbing her phone and shoving it in her pajama pant's pocket.

"Are you alone?"

"Really, Sherlock," Molly swung the pillow dramatically as she crossed her arms over her chest, "who would be at my flat, in my bedroom, at this hour, besides you."

Sherlock gently leaned on the door behind him closed with barely an audible click. He looked down at Molly, who stood a touch closer than necessary. His blue eyes glowed with that unfamiliar sheen of emotion. Hurt. Concern. Fear. Or at least the closest thing to fear Sherlock could feel when not drugged. She had only seen him like this once before.

In a rapid movement that caught Molly off guard, he leaned down to the side of her head, his warm breath swirled down the side of her neck, giving her chills as she gasped. He whispered softly into her ear as if he would be overheard, "Mycroft has been compromised."

* * *

**The sequel is up! Look for The Noble Bachelorette on my profile. That you all for reading!**


End file.
